


It's Natural To Be Afraid

by tunes84



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-22
Updated: 2011-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 22:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunes84/pseuds/tunes84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Refusing to accept the obvious, Sherlock searches for what he believes truly happened the night his world was shattered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Natural To Be Afraid

**Author's Note:**

> Took a few months to work on this. I was listening to a gorgeous song by Explosions In The Sky which has the same name as the title of this story. Made me feel a million different emotions at once, and this is what came out of it. It's sad, but I hope you enjoy anyway.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or Explosions In The Sky.

Sherlock chooses not to remember his life before John, let alone what it would be like without him. Sometimes he's not sure if that's for the best, but he's not about to change it. John just _is_ , and always _will be_.

He has to.

The wind has picked up, blowing the lingering mist into Sherlock's eyes as he walks side by side with Lestrade down a dark, soaked sidewalk, away from the brighter city lights. Soft murmurs, _questions_ , float through from bystanders and echo off the buildings surrounding the crime scene tape that is stretched from one end of the street to the other. The police cars' lights reflect in the rain puddles, blurring the street, making everything around him blend and bleed into one.

"I'll go see what this is about, then you and I need to get back to that double murder." Lestrade looks pointedly at Sherlock, who is hardly paying attention to the Inspector, instead focusing on the new crime scene. "I need you on this, Sherlock, don't get sidetracked. Please don't make me beg."

Sherlock glances sideways towards a broken bottle and waves the detective off. "I'm guessing a simple mugging, anyway, hardly worth my time. There's a pub over there, he was probably drunk and never saw it coming."

Lestrade lets out an irritated breath, choosing to just walk away. Sherlock is grateful. There are more pressing matters he needs to keep his mind on at the moment, more interesting puzzles, like a double murder in an upscale London flat.

Much more interesting than a boring mugger case, anyway.

Sherlock, looking up at a cracked window that glistens from the earlier rain storm, takes his phone from his pocket and opens his recent contacts. John is number one.

 _Double homicide. Much less boring than whatever else you're doing. Meet me at the Yard in 15._ _SH._

He presses send, only to hear a familiar chirping sound seconds later. Sherlock straightens, taking in a deep breath as he hears Lestrade's voice, hushed, cracked, "Cover the body, cover the _damn body_!"

He has to have gotten that wrong (not that he would admit it to anyone but himself). Plenty of people in London have the same message tone, it was hardly worth the little fright-no, _slight concern_ he suddenly feels in the depths of his subconscious. Lestrade obviously wants to cover the body because of the persisting mist, to preserve the evidence. Of course, that's what it is.

Yet, Sherlock can't seem to feel his feet enough to turn around and test this theory.

 _Don't be ridiculous, get a hold of yourself_ , he scolds, letting out the deep breath he had taken in just before. He replaces the phone inside his pocket and walks not unsteadily, just wearily, towards the body.

"Sherlock, I don't-" Lestrade begins, cut off by Sherlock's sharp glare.

"Don't what?" Sherlock asks, his tone frustrated and low. The way Lestrade is looking at him, like he is _vulnerable_ , makes his annoyance level jump off the charts.

"I think you should sit down," Lestrade offers, his voice soothing, as it would be to some sort of idiot child who has lost his mum.

Sherlock stares at the sheet, at the small circle of blood that's soaking through the fabric, growing on it like the growing lump inside the pit of his stomach. "Take the sheet off," he demands, aware that his voice can only manage a whisper.

"Sherlock, please," Lestrade practically begs, putting a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder.  
Sherlock snaps.

"TAKE IT OFF!" he cries and reaches down, ripping the sheet off the body with an intensity that frightens everyone within viewing distance.

The sheet floats down behind him as Sherlock stares at the body before him. Blond hair wet and matted to the forehead, eyes and mouth open like he's shocked, so obviously it came as a surprise. Blood stains his knitted jumper, the wound long from a knife. Killed, _not a mugging_. Murdered.

 _Stolen._

Somewhere behind him Sherlock can hear unimportant voices trying to drown out the more important thoughts that actually matter. He blocks them out, focusing on the information, on the pieces that will somehow fit the puzzle once everyone just _shuts up!_

He keeps his concentration on the scene, goes over all the details that are now more important than they were just a few minutes ago. On his knees, Sherlock shakes off the heavy hands trying to pull him up without uttering a sound. His nose sits mere inches from the wound, staring at it, burning it into his mind and storing it under "critical importance" with a dozen other pieces of information from this horrifying crime scene. Hand locks, unnoticed, around the damp mobile which is lying next to the body and he holds it so tightly that his fingers might very well break from the stress of his grip.

 _Sherlock._

A voice nags in the faintest corners of Sherlock's memories, too new to be old, but too old to remember life without it.

 _Go home, Sherlock._

He lets the hands around his shoulders finally stand him upright and he turns to Lestrade. Poor, distraught Lestrade, his face the color of the now wet sheet underneath their shoes.

"Sherlock?" he questions, ready to recoil.

Sherlock rolls his shoulders back, out of the Inspector's hands and takes a few steps to the side. _Leave,_ he thinks. _Just leave_. With one more sweep of his eyes over the scene for any missed evidence, Sherlock Holmes lifts his head and walks back up the street towards those brighter lights, away from the flashing cars, the crime scene tape, and the body now framed before his eyes for eternity.

 _Shattered_. The world has shattered.

 

-x-

 

The mist has disappeared by the time Sherlock stands before 221B. He had run out the door in such a hurry earlier that it now stands wide open, waiting for him to step inside. It's taunting him, really, so open and empty but he tightens his hold on the phone in his pocket and steps through. Nothing is out of the ordinary, yet everything is completely different. The noise in the street below the open window sounds different, the feel of the air inside the flat is different, even the moments of absolute quiet don't sound the same.

Disgusted, Sherlock scans the room and notices every meaningless thing he had noticed before but hadn't cared about. John's old cane against the wall by the door, John's newspaper sitting on the cushion of the armchair, his computer left open and glowing softly on the small table by the sink. He walks slowly into the kitchen, his eye catching on a half-filled cup of tea left on the counter from the morning. Running his fingers over the rim, Sherlock notices his hand isn't steady. With a deep breath, he tears himself from the memories and begins to run through the facts.

Facts don't have _feelings_.

Something about the wound seems vaguely familiar to Sherlock, but every time it flashes in front of his eyes he pushes it down again. The image of John, so loud and vulgar in his vision, is something he doesn't want to remember.

He stabs his finger on a piece of plastic that is peeling off the phone in his pocket, remembering that it was there and might be useful to him. Taking it out, he starts to scroll through the recent messages.

"Some might call that an invasion of privacy."

Any other voice may have made Sherlock turn around in surprise. He keeps scrolling, though, never breaking his concentration.

"You shouldn't have stolen that, you know."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and clicks on a suspicious message. "It's a piece of the puzzle, John."

 _John._

Still without looking up, Sherlock imagines his flatmate shaking his head. _Dead end_ , he says to himself, and clicks the next message.

"How do you know there even is a puzzle?"

 _How_? Sherlock thinks. Finally lifting his head, there's nobody in the flat but himself. "There has to be," he breathes, unsure of whom he's trying to convince. There has to be a reason because anything else just doesn't make _sense_.

Sherlock clicks a few more messages, none of them particularly threatening or out of the ordinary. Instead, he opens up the sent folder on John's phone, finding that most of the texts are to him, and begins to read through them.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" John's voice asks from somewhere behind him.

Sherlock closes his eyes and thinks for a moment before saying, "Because. It makes you less dead."

There is silence in the flat again. Not even the sounds from the street could penetrate the barrier of blood pumping inside Sherlock's ears as he clicks the phone off and puts it back inside his pocket. With a sigh, he simply states, "Stop staring at me like that, John."

That's when Sherlock finally picks up his head and turns. Faithful John, breathing John, _dead_ John stands there, staring. The blood stain on the front of his jumper doesn't go unnoticed by Sherlock.

"Don't you find this a bit odd, even for you, Sherlock?" he asks, so John-like.

Sherlock shrugs. "Not really," he answers truthfully. _Why should it be?_

"Visualizing your dead flatmate?" John scoffs, clearly agitated, just like Sherlock remembers. "That's not okay."

"I need an assistant." Sherlock continues to stare at the wound as he talks. "I need _you_ , John."

"No, you don't."

"To find your killer."

"Well, I can't just give you the answer, if that's what you want." John's voice has raised in his frustration and Sherlock smirks.

"Since when is that ever what I want?"

The frustration turns to weariness and John lets out a long breath. He looks up, that painful fondness in his eyes cutting through Sherlock's thickest walls. "Are you going to be all right?"

It's a simple question that he isn't sure he knows how to answer, so Sherlock settles on, "Of course."

"Sherlock," John begs, as if there's something more Sherlock can offer him. What more can he _offer him_?

He throws his hands out and turns away from John. "What do you want from me, John? Am I to lament your absence and cry in your room? Write mournful poetry of our time together? Is this the proper way to grieve for you?" His voice is raised, but he isn't shouting. He simply sounds desperate and, oh, how he _hates_ to sound desperate.

There's a knock at the door and Sherlock realizes he is alone once more. He looks around quickly, suddenly feeling quite exposed. Straightening his collar, he goes to open the door.

"Good evening, Sherlock." Mycroft. Just who Sherlock _didn't_ need to see at this moment.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock snaps coldly. He knows exactly why, and it aggravates him.

"You know why," Mycroft answers, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes and contemplate slamming the door shut right in his face, hopefully snapping the point off the umbrella he's leaning on in the door frame. "I heard about what happened and I was concerned," he adds, which also adds to Sherlock's annoyance.

"It's barely been an hour," Sherlock mumbles.

Mycroft nods. "Yes, well, news does spread rather quickly these days. May I?" He gestures towards the inside of the flat. Sherlock reluctantly steps aside, aiming a slight kick at the umbrella before turning quickly towards the window. _Ignore him_ , he thinks, _and_ _he might just go away._

However, life has taught him that dealing with his brother is never that simple.

"Who were you shouting at, Sherlock?" Mycroft asks as he places his jacket on the hooks behind the door.

Sherlock stares at the empty armchair John had been sitting in just 12 hours ago. "I was thinking. Loudly," he lies, shrugging his shoulders and avoiding eye contact. "Don't make yourself comfortable, either, you're not staying."

"I thought you might need help with arrangements," Mycroft offers, ignoring Sherlock's last comment. "I can arrange for John's sister to come and collect his things. After the funeral, of course."

Those words suffocate him, clouding his thoughts so he can't think clearly. A funeral, and John's things, gone from Baker Street? He can't think about it, he can't imagine it empty, without John.

 _Without John._

"We'll wait for the investigation to end, and then we can begin-"

Sherlock interrupts his brother, that pounding back inside his head. "Why are you here, Mycroft?" he demands again, loudly, finally looking Mycroft in the eye. For a moment they stare at each other, a battle of wills to see who can hold out the longest. Mycroft is the first to turn away and Sherlock can't help but feel a little triumphant. Somewhere in the back of his mind he can see John rolling his eyes.

"I'm worried. About you," Mycroft says, his voice soft.

Sherlock, however, can't care about this right now. "Then worry somewhere away from here. I have work to do."

Mycroft narrows his eyes. "You're not thinking of investigating this, are you?"

"I'm not thinking at all because you won't leave and _let me_ think!" Sherlock cries, exasperated. It amazes him how Mycroft doesn't see this. How Mycroft can just stroll in here as casually as if he were coming for tea, speaking of John's death as if he were asking about the weather. John's death, his murder, his _absence_ as if Sherlock will just let him go completely.

As if he never even existed. Mycroft was trying to take him away, to give him away, as if he were never even here.

"Leave," Sherlock growls, fire in his throat now. Swallowing hard, he adds, "I need you to leave."

Mycroft licks his lips and nods. He looks as though he were expecting this and it makes Sherlock uneasy and absolutely infuriated.

"I'll give you a few days, then," Mycroft says as he grabs his jacket from behind the door. "You know where to reach me."

Sherlock turns his back to his brother and doesn't say another word. He waits for the door to shut behind him, watches through the window as Mycroft gets into his car before grabbing the letter opener off the mantle and throwing it, with a loud cry, across the room.

Sherlock stares at it, glinting in the light from overhead as it protrudes from the wall.

"Nice throw, but that was just a bit uncalled for."

Sherlock twists his lips into a small smirk. "It helps me think."

He looks at John just he is wiping his hand down the side of his face. "Yes, anything destructive seems to help you think," John mutters before falling into his armchair. "You do know Mycroft is just concerned about you?"

"Oh, spare me," Sherlock groans. He sits opposite John and puts his fingers to his temples. "He only concerns himself with things of national importance."

John puts his hands up in defense. "All right, I'll leave it alone for now."

They're quiet for a while, John looking through the newspaper he hadn't finished browsing that morning and Sherlock thinking on the sofa. It's easy, normal. Safe. Controlled.

"So what are you thinking?" John asks a little later. "Moriarty?"

"Hmm? No, not his style," Sherlock answers with a shake of his head. "The wound, though, seems familiar. The position of the body, as well. Two, maybe three patch problem."

John laughs. "You're brilliant, Sherlock. You'll figure it out."

Yes. He'll figure it out.

He _has_ to figure it out.

 

-x-

 

Sherlock still hasn't figured it out.

Five days after John is taken from him, ripped away so god damned unfairly, Sherlock sits on the curb under a flickering streetlamp, nursing a swollen lip with part of his blood-soaked sleeve. His weariness overcomes him in a way that is much too much to bear. Mixed with his frustration at hitting yet another dead end (gangsters aren't the friendliest bunch), his patience with himself is wearing thin.

He doesn't understand. Desperation grows inside of him, more and more with each passing day, hour, _second_. Why this is so hard, why he can't straighten it out in his head; it's so much more than pain. Pain he's never felt before. Pain he didn't realize he _could_ feel.

"You're a bloody train wreck, you know that?"

Sherlock cringes. "Not now, John," he mumbles through the swelling. "I don't need a lecture."

John sits beside him, lightly brushing his fingers over the bloody gash in Sherlock's arm through his now ripped coat. "You obviously do. What the hell were you thinking?"

"Maybe I wasn't," Sherlock answers with a groan.

"Liar," John huffs. "That brain of yours is always on." A pause, then, "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Finding your killer."

"Sherlock-"

"I HAVE TO, JOHN!" Sherlock yells, looking up to stare at nothing. The street is dead. He is alone.

The air shifts, wind picking up and suddenly Sherlock can feel the cold as his adrenaline wears off. Deep breaths, in and out, he stands and starts to walk quietly back to Baker Street. He is careful not to think of anything along the way because his thoughts tend to take on a life of their own when he doesn't have someone (John) to take his mind _off_ of them. He is unwilling to admit it aloud, but the word _fear_ creeps slowly out of the dark corners of his brain.

"Not afraid, not afraid, not afraid," he repeats over and over, the couple before him moving quickly to the other side of the street. Sherlock throws his head back and yells, "Why must I even say this!" A few uneasy stares follow him as he picks up speed, almost tripping over a bag that a young woman has placed in his path. She tries to mumble an apology but Sherlock ignores her, ignores everyone, until he finds himself home.

Slamming the door, running up the stairs, slamming another door, Sherlock stands in the middle of his (and John's) flat. Only he still feels lost.

"Why can't I THINK!" he cries, pulling at his hair, eyes wild and possibly terrified. Breathing began to hurt.

"You're probably scaring the hell out of the neighbors."

Sherlock whirls around towards John's smug (Concerned, Sherlock, not smug) face and shakes his head. "Damn the neighbors, John, they don't matter!"

"Then what does?" John asks, voice raised. Exasperated? Irritated. He wants to help, but Sherlock won't let him.

"My concentration matters. Figuring this out _matters_!" He's pacing the length of the sitting room with hard, purposeful steps. Every rise and fall of his feet means something.

John watches, biting his lower lip. "You're not figuring anything out."

Sherlock doesn't stop his pacing. "Fabulous deduction, doctor, but you don't know what's inside my head," he snaps.

"I know you're not solving anything in this state. Come," John says softly, holding out his hands. Sherlock stalls in the middle of pacing and looks at them as if they were on fire. "Come on, then, let me help."

Slowly, Sherlock walks to him, eyes never leaving John's hands. Fingers motion him to come closer, his hands steady, unlike Sherlock's own, the fists he's clenched them into trembling violently. He stops short of John's open arms and Sherlock lifts his head, locking eyes with his. Such sorrow in them, he thinks. Disappointment. Resentful? It's deeper than his memories of it, different than before.

"You know what's in my pocket." Sherlock doesn't ask because he knows.

John sighs. "I do. But you don't need it, Sherlock."

"How do you know what I need? This runs a little deeper than a three patch problem, calls for something stronger, don't you agree?"

"No, I don't."

"Course you don't," Sherlock grumbles, fingers now in his pocket, rubbing along the small plastic bag within.

"You don't need that, you just need to focus."

"I can't focus, John, don't you see?" Sherlock hisses, running fingers through his hair. He pulls the packet out, stares at it, _longs_ for it.

"Leave it be, Sherlock. Come, I mean it. Let me help." John's hands are still out, waiting. Sherlock replaces the small bag into his coat pocket and, with a deep breath, takes the last few steps toward his friend. John's fingers gently rest on either side of Sherlock's head and he closes his eyes as the breath seems to have been knocked out of his body.

"How can you be warm when you're dead?" Sherlock whispers, a tremor rising up along his spine.

"Focus, you bloke. Not on me here, focus on the scene." John's voice is low; it slithers into Sherlock's ears and wraps around his brain.

 _Focus_.

With his eyes still closed, Sherlock thinks. The position of the body, it's familiar, as is the wound, but he's gone through this already. An old case? A recent cold case, four men stabbed. He worked on it, an unsolved case, the only one since John. John, of course, _John_!

 _John's blog._

Sherlock's eyes snap open to John's smiling face.

"See there? That was less than a minute."

Their grins match, John's hands still twisted into Sherlock's hair and Sherlock's hands no longer interested in the small plastic bag inside his coat pocket.

 

-x-

 

Sleep eludes Sherlock, stinging his eyes as he stares at the website on John's computer. Brilliant, faithful John, who wrote of the cases they solved (and the one they hadn't). Sherlock remembers it even more clearly after reading John's blog and a small twitch of his lips into a slightly twisted smile gains a fond huff from behind his head.

"You think you're quite clever now, don't you?"

Sherlock turns to stare, taking in the kind eyes and the slumped shoulders of his very dead flatmate. "I needed you."

John shakes his head with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You didn't, that's just what you needed to think."

Large, dry rocks seem to have invaded Sherlock's throat so that he can't swallow properly. He clears his throat and looks down at his mobile, sending a text to Lestrade for the folder he needs.

 _Serial killer earlier this year. Unsolved. You remember which one. Bring the file to Baker street. SH._

They wait together, in companionable silence, exactly the way it should be.

 

-x-

 

An hour later, Sherlock is pacing again. It's easier than being still, easier than sitting on his hands to wait for the information he needs. John's eyes follow him back and forth but he never says a word.

There's a knock at the door to pull him out of his impatient thoughts. He eyes the flat (empty), straightens his jacket, and crosses the room to open it, revealing a disheveled looking Lestrade who stands in front of a rather smug looking Mycroft.

Sherlock tips his head, irritated, saying, "Funny, I don't recall inviting you, Mycroft."

Mycroft pushes past both men into the flat and removes his coat. "You're getting reckless, Sherlock."

A growl boils up inside Sherlock's chest at the matter-of-fact way Mycroft stated that. As if he knows what he's talking about; as if he _understands_.

"You don't know what you're talk-"

"Walking into a den of murderers earlier this evening? I won't mention all the other asinine stunts you've pulled over the past week in front of your guest." Mycroft leans against his umbrella. Sherlock contemplates kicking it out from underneath his palm.

Lestrade clears his throat from the door and steps in slowly, waving a folder in front of Sherlock's face. "You wanted to see this?"

"Yes, thank you, Lestrade." Sherlock's eyes never leave Mycroft as he snatches the folder from Lestrade's hand.

"Is that for John's case?" Mycroft asks casually, playing with the cuff of his sleeve.

"What? Wait!" Lestrade points to the folder while Sherlock looks through it. "What's this got to go with John? Sherlock, it was a mugging, I thought you wanted this to..." he trails off and Sherlock glances up.

"To what?" he snaps coldly.

Lestrade shuffles a bit on his feet. "You know, take your mind off things."

"My mind," Sherlock pulls a picture out of the folder and flips it shut, "is perfectly sound, thank you. Look at this." He holds one of the crime scene photographs up to Lestrade, who peers curiously at it.

"What am I looking at exactly?" he cautiously asks. Sherlock's sigh is a frustrated one.

"Look at the body! At the stab wound! Do I need to spell it out for you?" He looks between both men with his eyes wide.

Mycroft scratches his head, eyebrows raised. "Why don't you explain."

Sherlock huffs, turning back toward Lestrade. "The stab wound, it's in the same place on John's body as the other victims. He's the right age, and all the victims were killed in isolated areas. I never would have found it if—" he stops himself.

"If what, Sherlock?" Mycroft urges, stepping closer. Sherlock takes a step back.

"It just took me a bit longer than it normally would have," he says, clearing his throat. His gaze drifts behind Mycroft to John's computer, where his flatmate sits with kind, reassuring eyes.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft turns slowly to look behind him, then back to Sherlock with his eyes even more narrowed than they were before.

Lestrade steps further into the room, closer to Sherlock. "Look, I understand this is hard and you want to believe-"

"Those are facts!" Sherlock barks, slamming the folder onto the coffee table.

"John _is_ the right age," Lestrade continues, "but all the victims of this serial killer were tall brunettes, don't you remember?"

"It was dark, the killer could have mistaken him for a brunette. John's hair looks quite dark at night."

"They were stalked beforehand, Sherlock. Had John received any threatening notes in the past month?"

Sherlock's throat feels as if it's collapsing in on itself. "He hadn't mentioned, but if we search..."

"And now you are twisting the facts to suit your theory. You know better than that," Mycroft adds, not unkindly.

"His money was gone. His wallet was found two blocks over," Lestrade points out.

Eyes burning, Sherlock's hands begin to shake and his vision blurs. "He borrows my card, he doesn't keep loose money. I don't...I'm sure of it," he mumbles, backing up against the coat rack and knocking it to the ground. Lestrade moves to help him, but Sherlock pushes him away.

"I'm positive it has something to do with this case. He wouldn't have—I mean, it has to."

Mycroft's eyes, wary, watch Sherlock's every move; they scrutinize him, pick apart his every action. It makes him increasingly uncomfortable.

Lestrade, who has picked up the fallen coat rack, suddenly calls out loudly, "Sherlock, what the hell is this?"

Sherlock's head whips around and his heart sinks at the sight of the Inspector holding the small packet that had obviously fallen out of his coat pocket when it hit the floor.

"Are you using again?" Mycroft all but whispers, looking as if his worst fear has just come true right before his eyes.

"No!" Sherlock yells. "I haven't!"

"Then why the hell were you carrying this? Do I need to get Anderson up here to search the whole flat?" Lestrade threatens warningly.

"I haven't even opened the bloody package!" Sherlock cries. "I was going to, but John—"

He pauses. John stands by the window, his kind eyes turned mournful, and he shakes his head. Sherlock simply stares at him.

Mycroft turns again, like before, looking straight through John and sighs. "Oh, Sherlock. This concerns me," he says sadly.

Sherlock looks at his brother and they stare at one another, engaged, as always, in a silent battle until everything becomes more than Sherlock can bear. "Get out," he snarls at them, but neither man moves, intensifying his anger. "Out, now!"

"Sherlock—" Lestrade tries in a calming voice.

"OUT!" Sherlock screams, nearly tripping over the coffee table. He catches himself, stands upright, takes a deep breath; his back is to the men so concerned for his well-being. _So concerned, Sherlock, they're worried._

A voice in his head that isn't his.

"God dammit," he growls. Sherlock turns and pushes past both men without another word.

 

-x-

 

Hours pass after Mycroft and Lestrade leave the flat, having failed to convince Sherlock that he is wrong about John's death; hours since Sherlock had stormed off in the direction of his own bedroom, only to find himself standing in the doorway of John's. It has been _hours_ , and he still hasn't moved.

"It's okay, Sherlock."

Sherlock ignores John, so dead, breathing down his neck.

"Go on. It's okay."

 _So dead._

He takes a deep breath and steps in, feeling as though he were jumping into a frozen lake completely naked. The air seems thicker than it was in the hallway, he notes, running his hand along John's perfectly made bed. It's organized, like the inside of Sherlock's brain. John's room is efficient and clean; it's fresh.

John's room smells like John.

"It's okay."

It's not _okay_.

Anger fills the pit of his stomach, boiling up and up and up until it spills from his throat into a harsh, wordless cry. Sherlock blinks. The bedside lamp is shattered at his feet.

"Feel better?"

 _No_ , Sherlock thinks, shaking his head. "No, I don't."

"It's fine, really. I hated that lamp."

"You didn't, you loved that lamp."

John smiles, hot breath from his nose tickling the back of Sherlock's neck. "Okay, I didn't, but it doesn't matter. It's yours now, anyway."

Sherlock sits on the edge of John's bed, the squeak of the springs like nails down a blackboard. "Until Mycroft decides to kidnap me and give your things away." He looks at John.

"You know Mycroft was lying about that," John says, almost questioning.

Sherlock mumbles, "Wouldn't surprise me if he did it." He glances around the room again, realizing he knows the layout by heart, then returns his gaze to John.

"He's worried." John's eyes hope to reassure him.

"I don't believe a word that comes out of his mouth concerning his so-called worry," Sherlock sneers, folding his arms across his chest rather roughly.

Sighing, John tries again. "How about you try talking to him? You know, like an adult."

It's a valid suggestion that Sherlock refuses to have any part of. "I'd rather drown."

John's blue-tinged mouth draws into a thin line. "You really _are_ a child, you know that?" he says angrily.

"Yes!" Sherlock snaps back. "And you, John, are quite dead!"

Silence.

Looking down at his trembling fingers, Sherlock pulls in air as if it were all being sucked out of the room. A minute later, he glances back up, fully expecting John to have gone, but he's still there, staring. John mourns for him when it should be the other way around.

"Are you afraid, Sherlock?"

Sherlock turns away, gasping. _Terrified_. He's unable to say it out loud. The mattress moves beside him and he hears the quiet voice he wishes were real.

"Would it make a difference if I said it's natural to feel this way?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Doubtful," he mutters.

"Right, didn't think so," John says. "How about if I said it gets better over time?"

Slowly sinking down onto the soft duvet, Sherlock brings John's pillow to his chest (smells like John) and curls his knees up to it. "It won't," he replies in a voice he barely recognizes as his own.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. "It won't," he says again. He can feel John's fingers running softly through his hair as a strange swirl of emotion he's never felt before clouds his mind.

"It wasn't planned. You know it wasn't planned."

He shakes his head, breath hitching in his throat. "You're wrong, John."

Sorrow. He can feel it seep in through with every stroke of John's hand over his curls.

"I'm not wrong, Sherlock."

Focused on John's touch and drifting into uneasy sleep, Sherlock tries to put the thought out of his mind.

John has to be _wrong._

 

-x-

 

John hadn't been wrong.

A restless, eye-opening night's sleep has brought Sherlock to one very important conclusion: There is a murderer on the loose and it's Sherlock's job to find him. How could he let his emotions get in the way as they had? It's the very thing he normally condemns.

Normally. But why should this be any different? _This shouldn't be any different._

"New theories, then?"

Sherlock flips through the folder that Lestrade had conveniently "forgotten" last night on his way out (Sherlock's no fool) and silently scolds himself for even dreaming of the possibility that John had been murdered by this particular serial killer. He shuts the folder and throws it down, reaching for his mobile on the kitchen table.

 _Need to see a picture of the wound from autopsy. Send a text. SH._

"You know, you could always leave this to the authorities."

Sherlock snorts, glancing at his phone when it vibrates in his hand.

 _I'm not going to try and change your mind, but are you sure you're up to it? Don't lie to me, Holmes._

Eyes rolling, Sherlock shakes his head. "I would if I thought they were competent enough, John."

 _Wound, Lestrade. I don't have time for this. SH._

John shrugs, flopping into the armchair that Sherlock will think of as John's for the rest of his life.

"So," John begins, eyes still sad, "you're on board with the mugging?"

Sherlock stares at the picture of the wounded torso on his mobile phone, pushing down the nausea with a deep intake of breath. "I gave you my card that morning, for the shopping. You asked to borrow some money until pay day, so you had money in your wallet which was missing. Explains the mugging, I can't believe how stupid I've been. This—" he shows John the picture of the wound after his phone vibrates in his hand once again, "is the work of an amateur. It's sloppy."

John grins. "Welcome back, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock returns John's smile while reaching for his coat. "Come on, we have a few things to do."

"You don't think it might be a little strange, talking to someone only you can see?" John asks, straightening his bloodied jumper.

"Not really," Sherlock answers, ignoring the blood as he closes and locks the door behind them. "I used to do it all the time before you came along. Besides, people tend to stay out of your way when they think you're insane."

 

-x-

 

It's been three days since Sherlock's mind has cleared. Information that hardly made sense before had been reexamined under a more careful, calculated eye and, with much encouragement from his loyal flatmate, Sherlock had found the man they had been searching for. The thief. The killer.

John Watson's murderer.

Sherlock stares intensely at a dark-eyed man in one of the interrogation rooms who is fidgeting, nervous, and sweating all over himself. His focus is non-existent as he runs his hand over his forehead, talking in a low voice to no one but himself. The amount of hatred that burns through Sherlock's bones can never be fully described.

"Can I—" he starts, abruptly cut off by Lestrade who just walked into the room.

"No. You know the deal."

Sherlock swallows hard, his mind quickly racing through a thousand different scenarios of how to cause this man the most considerable amount of pain he will have ever felt in his entire life. None of which would compare to...

"Sherlock, are you sure this is him?"

A firm, dead hand rests on Sherlock's shoulder, clearing the doubt and wiping away his distress for the moment.

"His right hand will have a cut on the forefinger," he points out. "Once Donovan comes back with the knife I'm positive you'll find in his closet, he'll confess. Look, Lestrade, if I could just—"

Lestrade pulls him away from the glass and searches his face for something. He's _prying_. "You can't. You understand this, don't you? Understand it was—"

"An accident, yes. Unintentional. Wrong place, wrong time." Sherlock moves out of Lestrade's grasp, but the Inspector's eyes are still searching. Sherlock suddenly feels vulnerable and Lestrade's face smooths over.

"I'll be here when you're ready, and you'll be welcome back any time," he says. Sherlock's face has betrayed him, so he turns to leave without another word.

He won't be back for a long time.

 

-x-

 

"That was brilliant, Sherlock. I knew you would find him, you're absolutely brilliant!"

The cab driver glances in his mirror at the backseat, clearly uncomfortable with its occupant(s), but Sherlock doesn't care. He can't help the twitch of his lip at the sound of John's praise, or the short chuckle at the adoring look upon his face. John—cheerful, encouraging John—at his side. Smiling. Breathing. Though John's voice begins to sound a bit distant.

As Baker street draws nearer, Sherlock's throat feels thicker and John's face, no longer beaming, becomes more and more solemn. The flat will be empty, a realization Sherlock had chosen not to face until now.

Once out of the cab and up the stairs, Sherlock's palms begin to sweat. The air feels hot, his vision hazy and his mouth so dry that he's practically panting outside the door to his and John's flat. His, and John's.

Hesitant, he stops with his hand on the doorknob and whirls around.

"John—"

But John isn't there this time. John, murdered John, isn't there. John was taken from him.

Light-headed, Sherlock isn't quite sure how he makes it inside and over to the sofa. His fingers lace together at his chin as he stares at the empty armchair that longs for John, so perfect for John, still smelling of John. Eyes closed tightly, he imagines his dearest friend smiling. He longs to hear the sound of his voice and opens his eyes, emptiness still greeting him.

John was murdered.

Sherlock's chest begins to hurt so badly that he's sure it's a heart attack. He tries to push it away, but his body will have none of it.

John Watson, _his_ John Watson, murdered.

"Oh, God," Sherlock whispers, putting his hands to either sides of his head. He's panicking.

 _You just solved John's murder._

This time, the voice inside his head is his own.

"Oh my God," he repeats, rocking slightly on the sofa. Still staring at the empty armchair, Sherlock forgets how to breathe. Short bursts of air come in and out of his mouth, tightening his throat and bringing up the urge to vomit.

An hour passes, panic attacks taking over as his body violently protests all movement. He's close to passing out when he pulls his mobile phone from his pocket with an unsteady hand. Fumbling with the keyboard, he makes it quick.

 _Come get me. SH._

Less than a minute later, he has his response.

 _I'm already downstairs. MH._

Sherlock waits a few minutes with no intention to move. They have an unspoken agreement, many unspoken agreements, actually, so he waits because he doesn't trust his legs.

The door pushes open slowly with a wretched creaking that feels as though it's boring into Sherlock's head. He clutches it in his hands and watches Mycroft sweep across the room through the cracks in his fingers. He hates when his brother sees him like this.

Reading Sherlock's mind, Mycroft says, in soothing tones, "Don't fret over the state you're in, Sherlock. Let's get up."

"Please, Mycroft," Sherlock hears himself say. Pitiful, and he can't control it.

"What's that, now?" Mycroft asks, pulling Sherlock along gently.

Sherlock stops, grabbing onto his brother's shoulder and holding his gaze. "Fix it," he begs. He _begs._

Mycroft looks a bit stunned, but only for a moment, taking Sherlock's arm in his. "We'll sort it out when you've had a proper night's sleep."

They continue to the door, Sherlock giving everything in the flat one last glance. His things and John's things were scattered around, intertwined. They were together. This place will always be his and John's.

Sherlock knows John won't return to him, just as he won't return to Baker Street. Not without John. Because John just _is_ , and always _will be_.

He has to.


End file.
